


Let's fly, let's fly away

by Builder



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocados at Law, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Friendship, Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Motion Sickness, Overstimulation, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Matt and planes don't mix.Even planes that are still on the ground.





	Let's fly, let's fly away

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from tumblr. Find me @builder051

Matt lowers his tray table as soon as he flops down in his seat.  Foggy finishes stowing their bags in the overhead bin, then sits beside him.

“I don’t think you can do that yet,” Foggy says.  “You know, upright and locked until the fasten seatbelt sign is off, or whatever the gold standard is.”

“Hmph.”  Matt rests his elbows on the table.  He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.  “Why does your cousin have to get married in Scotland?” he mutters.  Matt’s not usually a complainer, but the headache he’s nursing demands he whine about something, even if it’s not throb behind his forehead.  “There are plenty of churches in New York.”

“Ah, but you’re missing the point of a destination wedding.  It’s not about the church, Murdock.  Though it’s so incredibly like you to focus on that aspect.”  The beanbags in Foggy’s neck pillow crunch as he positions it behind his head.  “It’s more like a glorified family reunion.”

“But why  _Scotland_?”

“I don’t know.”  Foggy shrugs.  The beanbags shift again, and the sound makes Matt want to grind his teeth together.  “I think she likes Outlander.  Fifty shades of green loch,” Foggy chuckles.  “Plus, it beats Disney World.  Better booze.”

“There’s booze at Disney World,” Matt says.  “At Epcot.”  There’s a United Kingdom in Epcot, too.  Matt almost wishes they were flying to Florida, but as he struggles through the mental math, he realizes the trip would be just as long.  At least it would keep them from having to fly over water.  

“Come on, Matt.  Let me be right about something for once.”  Foggy’s tone is still jocular, but it’s edging toward irritated.  Matt doesn’t blame him.  They’ve been up since four, at the airport since five.  A doughnut and a cup of dark roast haven’t done much good.  

Foggy’s still hangry.  But Matt’s downright nauseous.  “Should’ve picked a better date, then,” he says, the sick feeling in his stomach feeding his bad mood.

“Hey, you’re my plus-one.  There’s a difference.”  Foggy unzips his headphones case.  Matt hears the click as his friend turns on the noise-cancelling feature.  He thinks about telling him to wait till the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign, but he changes his mind.  It’s too much effort.  They haven’t even left the ground, and Matt’s already reluctant to open his mouth.  

A small foot kicks the back of Matt’s seat, followed by a shrill  _mommmmy!_

“Fuck,” Matt whispers, not caring about the little ears behind him.  He draws in a deep breath, hoping to calm himself down, but his nose is immediately on fire with the scent of plastic and stale sweat and dirty carpet.  He detects notes of someone else’s stomach acid, days old and long-since dried.  Matt’s molars are suddenly swimming in excess saliva.

He folds his arms and buries his nose in the crook of his elbow.  His sweatshirt still smells like his apartment, like the cedar blocks he keeps tucked in the back of his dresser drawers.  But he’s been away from home long enough to collect the auras of Starbucks (Arabica) and baggage claim (burned rubber) and the ticket counter (cheap hairspray).

“Sir?”  Here comes apple juice and Chanel no. 5.  “Can you put your table up till after take off?”

“Sure,” Matt sighs.  He sits up and tilts his head back against the seat, trying not to feel the germ-infested pleather pressing back into his scalp.

“I told you so!” Foggy says, too loudly.  He can’t hear himself, but Matt’s sure the rest of the plane does.  A painful ripple runs through the tiny hairs in Matt’s ear.

“Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please?”  A flight attendant starts giving the safety briefing, putting on a hilariously fake Scottish accent.  Most of the passengers laugh.  Matt thinks it’s a good moment to practice meditating.  As much as he likes Foggy’s family, he has a feeling it’ll serve him well to brush up on the skill.  Especially if he keeps feeling like this.

The plane starts to move, and it goes backward of all directions.  It takes a lot to catch Matt off guard, but that does the trick.  “Geez,” he hisses, his body jerking forward.  The seatbelt holds him in place, but it cuts into his tender stomach, and Matt finds himself swallowing frantically as his brain struggles for equilibrium.

“Relax, Matthew.”  Foggy slips his headphones down around his neck.  They fall on top of the travel pillow with a noise like an avalanche, and Matt hears the  _shhhhhhhh_  of white noise drifting up from them.  “We haven’t left the ground yet.  The pilot knows what he’s doing.”

Foggy has absolutely no way of knowing that, but it’s low on Matt’s list of concerns.  

“Yeah,” Matt sighs.  Deep breath.  Swallow.  Deep breath.  

It’s not helping.  Matt’s drowning in burned hashbrowns and diaper wipes and fumes from burning jet fuel.  

Coffee rises in his throat, bitter with the extra tang of bile.  “Fog,” Matt mutters warningly.

“Chill out.  It’s fine.”

He has to say it now or he’s not going to say it at all.  “Fog, I’m gonna puke.”

“You’re—what?”

Matt slaps his hand over his mouth.  That sends the message, and Foggy scrambles to fish the paper bag out of the seat pocket in front of him.  

Matt holds his jaw shut by sheer force of will until he feels the air displaced under his chin and he finally lets go.  He spits, but the sticky rope of saliva barely detaches from his lip before a sickly burp brings up more.  It’s a disgusting sound, probably  not half as loud as Matt thinks it is, but he’s embarrassed nonetheless.

“Shit,” Matt chokes as he comes up panting.  

A napkin sweeps in from nowhere and scrapes over Matt’s mouth.  He instinctively moves away, but Foggy grabs his arm.  “Hey.  Relax,” he says.  Matt’s grateful he’s gotten his volume under control.  “You ok?  You know, considering?”

Considering the fact that he just threw up on a plane that hasn’t even taken off yet?  He’s humiliated.  Overstimulated.  And still sick to his stomach.  But Matt supposes he’s had worse.  

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat of a bubble of mucous.  “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

Matt tries to focus on Foggy’s voice, and not the fact that he’s folding the top down on Matt’s bag of vomit and passing it off to a flight attendant.

“Mm-hm.”

“You wanna wear these?”  Foggy offers his headphones, still hissing their noise-cancelling tune.

Matt considers.  The roar of the engine isn’t that bad.  But the kid behind him is singing  _twinkle, twinkle, little star_ , but with only half the words and very much out of tune.

“Thanks.”  Matt slips them over his ears.  

“No problem, bud.”  Foggy claps him gently on the shoulder.  The he reaches across Matt and lowers his tray table for him.

“Aren’t I supposed to wait?”

Foggy leans in close, even though he probably knows Matt can still hear him.  “You get special privileges now.”

“Great.”  Matt puts his elbows back on the table and lowers his head.  “Wake me up when we get there.”


End file.
